


It’s not a date

by Chikaneclaes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:07:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26385361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chikaneclaes/pseuds/Chikaneclaes
Summary: In betwixt getting ready for a definitely -not-date, Hermione ponders her relation with a certain blonde.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Comments: 1
Kudos: 57





	It’s not a date

**Author's Note:**

> nothing belongs to me, I apologize for any mistakes

“It’s not a date.” Hermione firmly tells crookshanks who looks at her from the bed as she changes for the fifteenth time.

She checks herself in the cracked, dusty mirror of her room apartment, briefly considering her form. This one is… less wrinkly than the other one, at least.

Hermione lets out a noise of frustration, resolutely deciding to stop worrying over clothes of all things.

...And then he promptly starts worrying about the tangled, scruffy mess of her hair.

She scrubs her hand through the mess, idly wondering if that counts as brushing the damned thing.

“You know, scruffy is the new sexy,” Fleur had told her once— offhandedly , jokingly , with a pretty smile that somehow made a Beautiful woman like her look even more beautiful.

And Hermione could barely function the rest of that job meeting, stumbling over the questions and mumbling her words .

More like a blushing schoolgirl.

God, what is Fleur Deacour turning her into?

Shaking herself from the memory, she looks at the clock, the time taunting her as it simultaneously moves too fast and too slow for her liking.

On one hand, she just wants to go and get it over with.

On the other, she also wants to hide in her room and bury her nose in a book.

And it’s so stupid , to act like this. It’s not like they haven’t hung out before. Hell, she’s practically lived in her apartment for the past few months.

...For purely laboral purposes. Of course.

( Unfortunately , her brain supplies before she promptly shuts that thought down before it leads to... other thoughts).

So, it isn’t like she has cause to be nervous—not around Fleur, the only person here who’s never made Hermione feel less.

But perhaps that in of itself is causation for nervousness. After all, she’s always so impressed by her, so comforted by her...

Hermione doesn’t know what she’d do if he ever disappointed her.

“She’s in love with the pretty boy Weasley,” Hermione tightly reminds a Crooshanks, even though it’s true that she hasn’t even spoken his name in the last months except out of dispassionate annoyance.

All she can talk about is the internship in the Ministry, her ambitions as bright as her bubblegum smile.

And other peoples may be threatened by that, but Hermione herself finds it utterly intoxicating .

“It’s not a date.” Hermione repeats, the words sour on her tongue.

It’s just a gift . A reeducation is what Fleur likes to playfully call it.

“You eat like this?” Fleur had demanded, bewildered, “Every single day?”

Hermione had shrugged, her mouth full of greasy burger, “Sometimes I get a salad.”

Fleur leveled her a look of disbelief.

“That was a lie,” Hermione admitted easily, “I just wanted to get that frown off your face.”

“I’m frowning because you’ll be dead by the time you’re forty.” Fleur told her, and even though she was nagging her now, she kept stealing fries off of her plate, “Grease isn’t apart of the main food group, Hermione.”

“But it is part of my price range,” Hermione said, gesturing to the paper bag.

Fleur furrowed her brow, “You never learned to cook?”

“Not well.” She replied, causing her to laugh.

And it would always amaze her—that someone like her could make someone like her laugh like that.

“You should try this cute place on Boulevard,” Fleur told her, “It has steak that, like, melts in your mouth.”

Hermione snorted, “That probably costs enough to drain my bank account.”

Fleur shrugged, “Let me treat you then.” She gasps, “We can make an evening of it!”

Hermione tried to make it not seem like her mouth had gone completely dry, “Really?”

We deserve a night out,” Fleur said, dramatic as ever, “I’m positively wilting in the fumes of stress and dry shampoo.”

And Hermione had agreed because she had yet to learn a way to say no to Fleur Delacour.

Hermione feels a pitter-patter deep in her chest, reminding her of a story that her mother would tell her about the day that she met her father.

She tries to smooth down the wrinkles of her dress and fixes her hair. He’s about to leave when her phone rings.

And as soon as he picks it up, she starts talking, and Hermione’s stomach drops.

“—And so now my blue sheets are a gross green color,” She says, the sickness evident in her pitiful voice, “Which throws off the whole color scheme of my room.”

Hermione nods, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice, “Yeah, I can imagine.”

“You really don’t mind a raincheck?” Fleur asks for the millionth time.

“I didn’t have anything to wear anyway.” Hermione points out.

She snorts, “That’s never stopped you before.”

Hermione gasps in mock-horror, “That’s not very positive of you to say, Miss Delacour.”

She groans, “Give me a break.”

“Never.” Hermione promises, grinning.

Her laugh turns into a wet, disgusting cough.

“Get some sleep.” Hermione instructs her gently

She sighs dreamily, “Okay,” And Hermione almost hangs up before she hears her say quickly but firmly, “But I owe you a date. You’re not getting out of being spoiled so easily, Miss Granger.”

Hermione blinks.

“Okay.” She says weakly, after a beat.

Fleur yawns, and though she seems to be on death’s door, she still manages to sound sweet and peppy, “Sweet dreams, Hermione.”

She hangs up before Hermione gets the opportunity to say the words back.

Hermione sits down on her bed with her hands in her book, trying to remember what he used to do when she didn’t have a pretty girl to fret over.

“She called it a date .” She whispers a Crooshanks, a secret between friends.

Hermione checks the clock again, rationalizing that so long that she’s dressed, she supposes that she can swing by the store and pick up some juice, chocolate and books or megazines for Fleur.

Because that’s what friends are for, right?


End file.
